Posts Tagged ‘Righteous Rage’

The homecoming that sucked

Wednesday, February 24th, 2010

Dear Dirtbag Who Broke Into the House of an 88-Year-Old Man with Alzheimer’s:

I hope whatever parts dangle from your body whither and die. I have no idea what you were looking for in the mess you scattered across two rooms, but I sincerely hope it was gonorrhea and that you found it. As far as I know, my Dad does not have gonorrhea, but there’s a lot of stuff in that house, and he WAS in the Army, so you never know.

The fact that your scumbag hands even touched my mother’s wedding album makes me want to sterilize it before I open it again. My one comfort is that the bag you rifled through and left on the bed was full of cat shit not that long ago. I hope you bite your nails.

That is all.

Sincerely,
Dirty Hooker

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Why is it never promiscuous sons?

Wednesday, February 10th, 2010

“It’s like living under a mountain with a dragon. Some years it’s your virgin daughter they take. Nothing personal.”
– Devon, after the City of New York towed his car

You know what I didn’t want to spend $800 on this month? The list is pretty damn long and includes spider anti-venom, but I most definitely didn’t want to pay $800 to reclaim our own car.

The car was towed because, according to the DMV, we owed $400+ in parking fines. Maybe we did, maybe we didn’t. Devon says he paid online, but he doesn’t have any proof, so the DMV has essentially told us to suck their tail pipe.

Even if we hadn’t paid, $400 for an unwanted tow and storage for half a day is bullshit. Somewhere, somebody said: “You know what we should do to people who don’t pay their fines? Make them pay an even BIGGER fine.” And then a whole bunch of other people laughed maniacally and twirled their mustaches and jabbered on about installing FREAKIN’ LASERS at the toll booths to keep traffic moving swiftly.

The part about the lasers is true.*

Anyway, Devon presses on with wanting to own a car in New York, and I press on with not wanting to pay $800 in fines, so life is back to normal.

* The part about the lasers isn’t remotely true. Sucker.

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iPad: Not the Apple of my i

Thursday, February 4th, 2010

Dear Apple,

I remember a time not that long ago when I was in love with you. You were so young and pretty. And I could drop my first love, the iBook, from a billion feet in the air with no damage. In geek parlance, I admired your constitution score.

Times have changed. With the release of the iPad, it’s like I truly see you for the first time in all your soggy douchiness. You tout yourself as “magical.” No, you are not “magical” — you are an ordinary device in an increasingly crowded field, and a shortsighted one at that. You allow publishers like that other douche nozzle, Macmillan, to jack up the price of ebooks and milk your customers. You’re pissy at Google for having the nerve to compete with you in a free market. You make using iTunes with non-Apple tech like looking for a Cheerio in a cow patty. And lastly, how did your marketing monkeys not see the MAXiPad jokes coming from space?

I am so disappointed in you, Apple. I feel used — used like the 10-cent media whores Steve Jobs has to suck off to get the fawning press he does.

I am ashamed to admit that I still dig my iPod, but I suppose we can be fuck buddies until something better comes along.

Sincerely,
Dirty Hooker

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Goddamn it, Fitz!

Monday, February 1st, 2010

Devon and I awoke to a nasty surprise this morning in the form of a large pee stain in the middle of the bed. I know I didn’t do it, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t do it. Fitz was curled up on the bed as far from the pee as possible. Needless to say, she’s going to be crated at night for the forseeable future. Devon pointed out that what separates adult humans from every other lifeform is responsibility for one’s urine. He noted this after spotting the cat pee in his chair. Again. It’s their special way of telling him to fuck off when the litter box is dirty. So Fitz was too lazy to get her ass out of bed and over to the pee pad, and the cats were just spiteful.

The Adult Urine Theory also applies to Dad, who got pissy – ha ha! – with me when we were at a friend’s house and I insisted that he change his diaper and let me blow dry his pants.

In other news: I started the process for carving mom’s name into the headstone. She used to joke that if she kicked it before Dad, she would be buried between her first husband and second husband – a man sandwich. Would it be inappropriate to carve “Bow chica bow wow” into the stone?

I am wholly inappropriate.

Random funny from Devon, as we were walking on the subway platform: “If people commute together long enough, do their Metrocards sync up like periods?”

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Pop Quiz, Hotshot

Thursday, December 24th, 2009

Guess which one of the following items DID NOT make it through airport security.

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Box-Cutter-Knife-4679

If you guessed the box cutter, you should not be working for the TS-Fucking-A.

When we moved into our new apartment, Devon picked up a bunch of box cutters, and I slipped one of them into my purse in case I needed to cut someone someday. I forgot about it completely. This razor blade made it all the way through airport security, while my Japanese Cherry Blossom body lotion did not.

Something ain’t right here.

To be fair, I never get shit stolen confiscated leaving New York — only when trying to navigate Denver International Asshats — so there’s a good chance I would have gotten an anal probe from the TSA Saturday upon my return home.

But do you know what happened as a result of me bringing this deadly weapon onto the airplane? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because I’m an ordinary person trying to get from point A to point B, just like I was the day the TSA protected the world from my overpriced girly products. Just like the vast majority of travelers.

Thank God they remembered to make me take my shoes off. Who knows what could have happened.

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Facebook needs to back out of my bizness

Thursday, November 5th, 2009

Listen, Facebook, I don’t care what my mother told you to do before she died: I don’t need to hear your shit about my biological clock. I’m not even trying to have a baby, so I don’t need “fertility coaching.” I call my birth-control pills “baby bombs” for a reason.

Besides, the phrase “fertility coaching” is just bizarre. Like I really need some strange dude standing next to me while I’m having sex, telling me I’m doin’ it wrong.

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Keeping the world safe from rogue crafters

Tuesday, October 27th, 2009

What’s a girl gotta do to get some sodium hydroxide in this town?

Here’s where I’d normally joke about making bombs and meth, but that would probably put me on an FBI list somewhere. Of course, I was probably put on a list after telling the world that Devon kills hoboes. I’m sure the “joke” about popping Balloon Boy’s only defense against gravity sent up a few red flags, too.

But seriously, all I’d like to do is make some cold-process soap. For that, I need fat, water and lye. I have already rendered the fat of the obese and gathered their tears, so all that’s left is the lye. But I’m told that recent laws make it a ridiculous pain in the ass for brick-and-mortar stores to sell lye. So now I have to buy it online and pay shipping costs for something I used to get easily at the local hardware store.

It’s no wonder I’m becoming more crazy libertarian every day.

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BE AFRAID! — no, not really

Thursday, October 22nd, 2009

At a friend’s house the other day, I learned that children in a school in New Jersey aren’t allowed to carry backpacks from class to class anymore, presumably because they’re hauling weapons of mass destruction to history class. I know I would.

When I was in high school, I had a bag that could hold about 4,000 pounds of crap. I carried all my morning books in that bag so I wouldn’t have to trudge back and forth to my locker. I could fit small freshmen in that bag.

Maybe that’s why schools started outlawing backpacks. Good job, me.

What the hell are people so afraid of, and why do they create crap rules that don’t keep us any safer?

Cracked explores the problem with its usual brand of ferocious investigative journalism. I always suspected that Amber Alerts and the sex-offender registry were worthless, at best.

Diddling kids sucks, but if it’s going to happen, odds are it’s going to be creepy Uncle Todd, who REALLY likes giving horsey rides, rather than that dorky loner three blocks down who got nailed once for public urination.

Hell, if anyone had seen me peeing in Mom’s backyard, I could be a sex offender now.

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The TSA wants me to be a hairy Neanderthal

Monday, December 1st, 2008

That’s the only reason I can think of why they felt the need to confiscate my Bath & Body Works Japanese Cherry Blossom moisturizer and shower gel. These pleasantly scented $8.50 threats to national security made it through LaGuardia, but the folks at Denver International Asshats are obviously on top of their game. Last time it was my lavender-scented shaving gel. Interestingly enough, Devon made it through with a 6-inch-long iron pipe in his backpack.

A fucking iron pipe.

Clearly, the threat of giving everyone a really good scrubdown is more serious than beating the crap out of passengers with a fucking iron pipe.

Did I mention it was made of iron? And that it was a pipe?

Now, before anyone gets all up in my grill about not reading the security regs the TSA so nicely changes every six hours or so, let me say that I don’t question their right to take my shit. When I buy a ticket, I agree to all kinds of nonsense, like boarding the flight fully clothed and leaving my spear gun at home. I question their intelligence in deciding that my moisturizer and shower gel, which were about half empty and, volume-wise, would probably have fit in 3-ounce bottles if I’d had bottles to transfer them into, were a greater threat than a fucking iron pipe. If only I’d thought to bring caps, I could have poured the stuff into the pipe and saved myself about 20 bucks.

I also lost an earring. That’s probably not the TSA’s fault, even though I really, really want it to be.

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